


My Old Heart

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aging, Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An addition to the Chicago Verse. Sam is forty-five and Dean is almost fifty. They get a call for a hunt and find unexpected situations at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Old Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I took a small break from It Takes (I can't bear to end it!) so I wrote some schmoopy Wincest. 
> 
> I'll be at Chicon in a few weeks and I can't wait for all the Wincest love there. :D 
> 
> This isn't my end to the Chicago Verse or the show in general. And I like how Sam might think of this as not a conclusion but a situation. I'm also forever in love with Sam having some psychic residue later on in life. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

It’s two in the morning when Sam’s cell phone rings.

It’s the standard iPhone ring tone because he never got around to changing it to anything else. The light from it shines from its place on his nightstand. It moves slightly to the left, even though it’s not on vibrate. If anyone cared, the entire nightstand is inching to the left at that moment.

Their house is quiet for the most part, except for all the little noises houses make, noises Sam knows his mother once noticed when she settled down. The creaking of pipes, the stubborn leaky faucet in his bathroom that Dean keeps meaning to get to but conveniently keeps forgetting, the sound of the vents and the furnace kicking in once it drops below fifty degrees.

Really simple noises he’s too glad to hear but can’t at the moment.

They’ve gotten into a good rhythm of going to sleep at around midnight; their previous lifestyles forever altering their sleep schedules. Sam usually gets up at six thirty to exercise and is out the door by eight to be at work by nine. It’s a comfortable pace for him at forty-five.

A lot of people told him—at this past company birthday party he knew nothing about and didn’t exactly want but went to anyway—that the mid-forties were the new mid-twenties.

While he’s not exactly _old_ , he is concerned that he’ll only get three hours of sleep tonight.

“Don’t _do_ that,” Dean hisses into his ear then grunts and rolls his shoulders. “Oh god damn, oh fuck…” Of course Sam has no intention of stopping; he continues to clench his ass and thighs every time Dean thrusts in. They’re right in the middle of sex—Sam’s favorite kind of sex. The kind that started somewhat innocently with Dean kicking him for space in the bed and  Sam elbowing him when the blankets were monopolized then mocking Dean for being a cranky old man. Then Sam’s hair was pulled and a rough, “You wanna say that again, fucker?” was growled into his left ear and that somehow led to Sam blowing Dean for an hour—a whole fucking hour—until yes. Where was he going with this?

It’s kind of sex that seems ordinary but it’s not.

The kind that if they were sharing an apartment, the people next door would hear the thump of the headboard banging on the wall and their quiet groans. The kind Sam thinks people earn when they’ve lived together for a while and you can tell they still can’t get enough of it.

Dean will be fifty in January.

Sam lays back and gasps as he’s pounded into with force. His legs are wrapped around Dean’s waist, tilted to the right slightly because Dean has a pillow under his tender left knee. Sam offered to ride him but of course his brother didn’t take it, preferring to be an asshole and try it this way. The way his prostate is being hit on every second thrust is dizzying, and for a few minutes Sam just basks in it. He focuses on the width and depth of his brother, on every twitch of the fine cock inside him. He admires the familiar tattoo in front of him, reaching up and placing his palm over it, bracing himself as Dean jackhammers into him, panting and gasping in pleasure and need.

But the moment he hears Dean wince in pain from his knee, Sam takes charge.

He flips them in a few fumbling but quick movements and doesn’t say a word, starts right back up, leans down with his legs spread and places his mouth right over Dean’s, moaning as he seats himself fully on Dean’s lap.

“Sam,” Dean whispers, his lips wet and shiny. “Sammy.”

“Yeah Dean,” he replies in the same whisper, though his voice is low and raspy.

It’s not awkward but it is fleeting when Dean places his right hand on Sam’s face, cupping his jaw gently, leaving it there for a moment. Their eyes meet then they each look away, both blushing and twitching from that moment in time.

There are hardly any secrets left between them.

Time healed that.

Well, except that Sam does know a few of Dean’s most recent secrets. He knows that Dean cut his hours at the shop and instead volunteers as a museum greeter during those hours and has yet to tell Sam. He knows that Dean listens to a podcast about a desert town and then records his own versions of the transcripts when Sam isn’t home; his deep, rumbling voice is perfect and Sam already posted an episode or two on the internet for the podcast fans to have at.

It’s that voice that’s egging him on at the moment.

“Yeah baby, yeah,” that voice growls, from bruised, red lips. “Oh fuck, Sammy. Sammy please.”

Sam leans back and pushes his hips forward, shuddering as Dean’s hand wraps around his cock, striping up and down hard and rough. He rocks himself up and down by an inch and applies as much pressure as he can with his thigh and stomach muscles, shoving down right against his prostate. He feels the first deep jerk of Dean’s cock and the first thick ropes of come.

This is Sam’s favorite kind of sex. Where he takes his time and makes Dean come first, messy and sloppy inside him, then carefully eases up and off his lap.

He’s about to come all over Dean’s chest and mouth, completely untouched, when his phone screams.

It’s the emergency ring activated by the phone company that only two people know the code to: Mrs. Martinez and Kevin.

“Fuck shit fuck,” Sam barks, groaning and hunching over in pain. His orgasm is all twisted and messed up; he limply grabs for his phone, grumbling as he can’t find it because once again he’s managed to shift everything in the room to the left. Even his bed is closer to the window that it was when they started.

It’s Dean who finally manages to grab it and answers with a pissed off shout. The volume’s up so Sam can hear the conversation even through his pained groans.

“Dean! I’ve been calling for an hour!” Kevin yells, which makes Dean hold the phone away from his ear.

“Yeah well it’s fucking…” Dean blearily blinks at the phone’s screen. “Three in the morning. What the fuck is so god damned important?” Dean’s speech is a bit slurred and he’s still panting; Sam hopes Kevin thinks they just woke up.

“I’ll tell you—wait. Oh god. Were you guys…”

Nope.

Dean only makes some crude comment that Sam doesn’t hear because he’s too busy rolling off Dean, landing on the bed with an oomph, curling up and nursing his ruined orgasm. His cock isn’t hard anymore but his balls are hurting; this should be Dean’s problem, not his.

Finally, after a few more minutes of Dean making as many references to Sam’s ass as he possibly can, Kevin tells him there’s numerous reports of a lone vampire killing out in the open, in a suburb an hour north from them. It wouldn’t be a big deal—certainly not a two in the morning big deal—if it weren’t for the fact that five civvies were dead and the only other hunters nearby were rookies.

“Alright, I’m up, I’m up,” Dean grunts and slowly sits up, scrubbing his face with his free hand. “Gimme the coordinates. Hurry, cause I gotta piss.”

Sam hears one final screech from Kevin as Dean walks over to his room.

 

It turns out that when people die in the suburbs, the cops actually give two shits.

The Chicago Police might consider working on a five-victim case like this, maybe show up and ask some questions then shove it off to newbie detectives. These suburban cops though, they’ve got the entire block sealed off and lit up.

“Really keeping our streets safe,” Dean says in a cheerful tone. They’re standing at the sidelines with a bunch of onlookers.

“They are, they’re all so brave,” one of the neighborhood moms chirps. She’s the kind of lady Sam avoids at the market because she will no doubt complain and hold up the line and complain some more.

“Oh yeah, brave sonsabitches,” his brother grumbles and the lady gasps. Sam ushers Dean away before another scene is caused.

Standing off to the side, Sam sighs and gives Dean a look, which earns him nothing but a different look. “Quit it,” Sam snips, “I’m not playing games, Dean.”

“Who said anything about games?” his brother replies sweetly. “Aw c’mon Sammy. I promise I’ll make it up to you when we’re done here. Or right now if you wanna have a go at it.” He leans in, grabbing Sam’s jacket, and speaks louder than necessary, “We can show them a thing or two about doing it backwards, reverse cowgirl style.”

After a shove and a few punches to the shoulder, Sam goes over the details he managed to scrounge up on the car ride over. There’s not much to go on and it seems like mostly a serial killer case, not their area, except for the puncture wounds on the victims’ necks. Sam flips through a few theories but insists that they need to talk to a few witnesses before they can decide if this is worth pursuing or leaving up to the suburban cops, who are especially thorough in doing a bunch of nothing from the looks of it.

Dean is about to answer when there are screams coming from the onlookers. The lady from before shrieks something Sam doesn’t piece together until a minute later.

“Look out! He’s got a gun!”

A young white kid in all black jumps over the police tape, away from the scene and towards the group of civilians at the edge. He aims and fires three rounds. His aim is shit.

Except for that one bullet.

The one that hits Sam’s left shoulder.

Sam stumbles backwards with a surprised grunt. Damn, his reflexes are shot. It’s been a while and the gun shot is eerily unfamiliar to him. Something propels him forward and he falls.

The moment he lands on his knees he hears another gun shot. He reaches forward to pull Dean down but realizes the last gun shot is from Dean. The kid falls with a thud somewhere and Sam struggles to calm himself down. Just a shoulder wound. It doesn’t even hurt that much. He’s concerned about where Dean shot the kid and if Dean remembered to bring his permit or didn’t the laws change about that…?

Dean’s shouting for an ambulance then dropping to his own knees and gripping onto Sam’s unhurt shoulder, hauling them close together.

“You fucker,” Dean barks, upper lip curling. “Sammy?”

With a shaky laugh, Sam gives a small smile. “I’m okay. Just… stunned. And fuck, this hurts.”

There’s a hand on his face again, cupping his cheek. It disappears when the paramedics arrive and take over. They sweep Sam away, though he can hear Dean declaring that he’s Sam’s partner and it’s within his legal rights to be in the ambulance. Thankfully, the medics don’t make a big deal and let him ride along. This is one of the few times Dean declares these kinds of things in public and Sam thinks it’s a bit funny. They don’t hold hands and Dean doesn’t break down in the ambulance; they maintain eye contact at all times and Dean rattles off the allergy to codeine Sam has to the nearest medic.

Turns out that suburban hospitals are really clean, cold, and fast.

They even stitch up their patients quickly.

The nurse that sees Sam acts like he’s in for a paper cut, even though the bullet’s in deep and precautions are taken because Sam has a few years history of high blood pressure and, as the first nurse sheepishly admitted, “The older gentlemen we have to monitor for heart issues.” Sam doesn’t mind but Dean does and informs the nurse, a twenty-something guy, that Sam is a young thirty-five and doesn’t need any special treatment.  

This current nurse, an incredibly patient older woman, tells Dean to sit down and leave her to work. “Worked on the South Side for fifteen years,” she murmurs, patting Sam on the back. “You’re good to go sweetheart. Now tell your partner he can stop glaring. Down boy,” she instructs Dean. “I fixed him up real nice. Stitches will wash out. I’m going to assume you can take it from here.” There are a few details about monitoring Sam’s heart rate and blood pressure and that if he feels faint, dizzy, or has chest pains they need to go to their nearest emergency room at once. Sam’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t hear any of that. With the swish of a curtain, she’s gone.

In his tiny ER hospital bed, Sam tries to guess the case. Dean tells him about it; something involving decoys and an ambush but he only catches half of it before he starts to nod off. There were some painkillers involved, he had forgotten about that.

He manages to see Dean sign some paperwork for him, which comforts him.

A minute later Dean is calling Sam’s work and leaving a voicemail informing them that Sam is taking two personal days off in a row. When Dean hangs up, Sam holds his arms out.

“Oh no,” Dean mutters. “Not from me.”

“C’mon,” Sam whines, blaming his mood on the drugs in his system. “Please? I just got shot.”

The older Winchester frowns and turns his back. Sam would be more hurt if he didn’t see Dean’s shoulders slightly trembling. Just as he’s about to soothe his brother, Dean starts talking.

“You’re acting like this isn’t a big deal and I get it,” he says quietly. “That kid had piss poor aim but he still hit you. I… I didn’t come all this way… I didn’t do everything that I did—that _we_ did—to have you killed by some wanna be goth teenager from the burbs.”

“Dean…”

“This is the end of the road, kid,” Dean states firmly, turning and making eye contact with Sam. For a split second, in that stance with that tone of voice, Sam sees John. “No more hunts.”

It’s difficult to explain the emotion here because Sam honestly never thought they’d reach this situation. It’s not a conclusion—he won’t call it that—because no one ever bows out from hunting. They just take longer breaks, distance themselves a little more. And he’s not sure how he’d prefer dying anymore; a few years ago he wanted to go on his own. Six months ago he decided it was together or nothing.

How messed up is it that he has to think of these things?

And now, Dean Winchester, of all people, is telling him they’re out of the game.

There’s two seconds of little brother objection, where he wants to tell Dean that he’s his own person and Dean can stop if he wants but Sam will reach his own point at his own pace.

What a kick in the ass to realize they’ve been having the same argument over and over again for most of their lives.

This is an argument that has to happen between partners, not brothers. Between civilians, not hunters.

And he’s pretty sure that there will be another way for them to retire without completely bowing out, some other way to help Kevin when he calls from the bunker. There usually is. They just haven’t thought of it yet.

So he holds out his arms again, because what the hell. If he’s going to concede a point then he wants a hug out of it god dammit. This time Dean only sighs and grudgingly moves forward, bending awkwardly to give Sam a hug in the hospital bed. If Dean thinks Sam doesn’t notice the small kiss on his cheek then Dean is wrong but Sam is willing to let him think it.

After all, he knows some of his brother’s secrets now and they aren’t so bad anymore.

“Can we go?” Sam murmurs, shutting his eyes, tired and giving into the painkillers.

“Yeah buddy, let’s go,” is the response he gets, with a pat to his chest. “Let me get a chair.”

When Dean walks into something, stumbles, and swears, Sam only smiles and stays quiet.

 

Everything in the room moved two inches to the left.


End file.
